


[ Untitled ]

by Naem (MistytpedNaem)



Series: De Killer's Youth [1]
Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistytpedNaem/pseuds/Naem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helping hands aren't always the cleanest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[ Untitled ]

**Author's Note:**

> Though untitled, the original filename was imacreeper.docx. Warning for subtle disturbing undertones - nothing triggery, just the implications of, well, manipulating a helpless kid.

It was a modest home, with modest caretakers and modest means. Most children were perfectly content with it – as content as they could be; wherever you looked, you would likely find some laughing, running, playing hide and seek, and you would also eventually find those sitting by some corner, keeping to themselves, their eyes observing with a mixture of happiness and something else that came from deep within them and only they would know.

He was one of the latter, something unsurprising to the one who had come for him.

A large man with a monocle sat by this child’s side, giving him a savvy smile. “Wouldn’t you rather be playing with everyone else?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He was quiet, as if he was not used to voicing his thoughts. “Some of them seem not to enjoy my company very much.”

“Oh, so you did try approaching them.”

“Yes, I did, sir. I asked them if they could kindly explain the rules of the game to me, but they said I was old enough to know and gave me this odd look…”

“… So you decided to stop bothering them.” The older man tilted his head with concern.

“Something like that,” he finished in what was almost a whisper. After a pause during which he decided not to look at the stranger any more, he continued, “I heard that people hardly come for the older children.”

“Who told you that?”

“I… I overheard it, sir.” There was a shade of shame in the boy’s voice. “I was passing by the Director’s office, I…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a short laugh. “Well, then, I trust you’re ready to go.”

“Yes, sir, I am.” He stood up and faced the older man, now with some eagerness. “Are you… really here to take me with you?”

“Let me tell you this: I wouldn’t make a promise I did not intend to keep – not even just one to a stack of paperwork. So, unless you _would_ like to stay here for a few more months…”

That expectant smile of his was like the warm embrace that the boy had never gotten.

*

“You never told me your name, sir.” It was curiosity, not suspicion.

“… Oh, I’m sorry.” The man gave him a thoughtful glance through the reflection on the car’s rear view mirror. “Call me Lawrence.”

“… Lawrence.” He repeated it, perhaps, as a way of committing it to memory. “What is it that you do, Mr. Lawrence?”

What an unfortunate little question to ask so soon. Regardless, he kept his tone casual. “It’s not often that I hear that question coming from someone so young.”

“I… would like to know, sir.” The young boy couldn’t help but pause at the sight of the man’s eyes. “… I was hoping to find out what kind of person you are.”

Lawrence let out another chuckle, this one longer than before. “You’re a clever boy, aren’t you? And honest, too…” He added, more as an aside, “I quite like that.” He would have left the conversation there, but he could see that the kid still wanted an answer. “I clean things up for people. It’s a… community service of sorts.” A half-truth would suffice for the moment – another question would serve as a handy change of subject. “What would _you_ like to be when you grow up?”

He’d barely processed the answer before he started thinking about the following question. “O-Oh… I’m not quite sure, sir. Back in the orphanage, they tried to motivate me towards some occupations, but…”

“Nothing drew your interest, I presume?” The light curiosity present in his tone was only a fraction of what he felt in reality.

“… I failed to see much point in construction or mechanics. Literature seems very beautiful, but I can’t imagine it would have much use in actuality.” Oh, he likes words. That certainly sheds some light on a number of things. “Culinary… Culinary was somewhat interesting – I like the idea of getting a recipe right, of it all coming together just _well_ – but…” He hesitated. “I was told I would be better off as a chimney sweeper—w-when I became older, of course.”

The older man had to contain another laugh – he wasn’t sure if he was more amused by the slight dramatic irony of the situation or by the boy’s need to specify what he meant. “Why is that?”

“I am too thorough… And that makes me too slow. Or so they say.” He didn’t exactly sound like his pride was wounded, but he didn’t seem quite content, either. “I… Personally, sir, I would rather wait for a well-cooked dish than be forced to eat a rushed one…”

Boy, what a kid.

*

Those caretakers at the orphanage weren’t just being cute or aiming to please when they said the boy was thorough. When he was told to clean his dish, he did it with such diligence that you would barely have to wash it afterwards. When he was asked a question, he answered with precision, as far as Lawrence could tell – that was doubly positive; an indication of trust – and if he ever lied, he made sure to be just as precise, although that did not mean he didn’t leave glaring holes behind.

He asked questions, too. Lawrence wondered when he would be able to start offering him the whole truth; sometimes, he almost wished he could have him “accidentally” stumble across a corpse and walk him through the human circulatory system.

He couldn’t do that.

Slowly, carefully, he started sharing more; a more exact description of his occupation, a more sincere introduction.

He wasn’t sure how or why he had come to feel so fatherly towards that child. He only knew that he did not want to force him into anything.

One day, the boy cut himself instead of an onion – nothing too grave, thankfully; only enough for his thumb to bleed.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, Mr. de Killer! I must have…”

“Don’t concern yourself too much… You’re good with that knife.” And he went on to add in a mumble, as he had a brief look at the cut, “It just slipped. It can happen to the best.”

He didn’t question any of those words; even years later, he regretted nothing.


End file.
